Once Upon a Time in New Vegas
by Colonel-Mustard1990
Summary: Money? Money never changes. This the tale of Anston and Co, and the rise and fall of the most famous, glamorous and deadly mercenary company in the history of the Mojave Wasteland. Alternate New Vegas plotline.
1. Chapter 1

Once Upon a Time in New Vegas

_"Lack of money is the root of all evil."-George Bernard Shaw_

Chapter 1

"Oh god, please I'm begging you, please stop, just please stop, please, I-"

The length of wood thumped down and silenced the pleading, reducing it to nought but whimpering through broken teeth. The figure on the floor curled up in a ball, trying to shelter his head from the blows the two baseball bat wielding individuals standing above him would bring down. It did him little good, another slamming into the back of his skull with painful thud.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Michael exclaimed, snatching the bat away from Ripley's hand before he could hit him again. "We were paid to mess his face up, not kill him, idiot!"

He shook his head, before prodding the prone figure with the tip of the bat.

"He still alive?" he asked.

"He's still whining like a little pussy, if that's what you want to know," Alex said, nudging his victim in the stomach with his boot.

"Good," Michael said as the pleading began once more.

"I've got caps," he sobbed. "You want them, take them. Just please, damn it, please stop. I'm begging you here."

The nudge became a kick.

"Shut up, pal!" Alex snapped, snarling. "Jesus, some people don't get the hint, do they?"

"Way you've been hitting him, I'm betting he's not gonna be taking many hints all that easy now," Brutus remarked with a chuckle. "Mike, how come I can't have a go on him?"

"You're six and a half feet of muscle and steroids, that's why, idiot. You'll kill him with one damn hit," Michael replied with a dismissive shake of his head. He sat down on his victim's bed, smoothing down the lapel of the white suit he wore, before he said; "You know why we're here, George?"

From his place on the floor, George shook his head.

"Because you're a moron, that's why," Michael said. "Because you didn't think about who you slept with, and now you've got to pay for thinking with your damn cock."

All he got was a whimper of frightened pain, and he shook his head. He wasn't expecting much else anyway.

"Hey, boss, I was doing a little thinking of my own," Alex said, pushing George onto his back where he clutched at his ruined face. There was the same smile on his face that he always wore when he was thinking of something particularly nasty. "You know you've got that saying yours, about importance of the customer?"

"Oh yeah," Michael said. "'The customer is the most important part of the job,' that's the one."

"Yeah, right, well I was thinking, maybe we should do a little more on George here," Alex said, prodding his prone victim's crotch with the tip of his bat. "Y'know, going the extra mile for the customer? I mean, seeing as our friend here thought of _this_ before anything else, maybe we could make sure that our, uh, offending article could be made to think twice."

Michael nodded, a slow grin crawling across his face.

"Of course," he said. "I mean, hey, what does Anston and Co. value more than its beloved customers? We're always willing to do a little extra for them, Alex, always. We've got a reputation to keep up, after all."

Alex smiled, before the bat thudded down and George screamed.

"Hey, I think I just realised how good maintaining customer relations feels," he announced.

"Value the customer, that's what I've always said," Michael said. "And speaking of which…"

He pressed a few buttons on the Pip-Boy 3000 on his wrist, tuning the inbuilt two-way radio, before he said into it; "That Mr Palson there?"

"It is," came a gruff reply. "Who is it?"

"It's Michael Anston, of Anston and Co." Michael answered. "About a certain individual you asked us to deal with."

"You got him?"

"Bleeding, rolling on the floor and crying like a damn baby," Michael said. "Hey, Brutus, pick him up and get him over here, will you?"

Brutus reached over with his massive robotic arm, the pincer at the end yanking up his victim by the shoulder and hauling him over to the bed.

"Georgey," Michael said to him warmly as he was dropped next to him. "I've got Mr Palson on the other end here. Y'know, the man whose daughter you dishonoured? I reckon you've got something to say to him, haven't you?"

George nodded drunkenly, before he slurred; "I'm sorry for messing around with your daughter, Mr Palson sir. It won't happen again."

"It had better not," the voice of Mr Palson said. He chuckled. "Sounds like you did a real number on him there."

"Well, we take our job seriously," Michael replied. "But believe me, he won't be luring any decent young women into his clutches again any time soon, don't you worry about that."

"Glad to hear it," Palson said. "You head back here and I'll settle your payment."

"Just give it to Doris, she should still be around," Michael said. "Remember, redhead chick? She'll be picking it up for us."

"Oh, your young lady friend," Palson replied. "I'll get it to her, don't you worry about that. Thanks very much."

"The pleasure is all mine, Mr Palson," Michael said. "Be sure to hire out Anston and Co. for all your future violence-based needs."

"I think I might just," Palson said. "I'll have someone contact you again if I ever need your, ah, services. Palson out."

Michael grinned as he flicked it off, before he stood up and crouched next to George

"Now, Georgey," Michael said cheerfully to his victim, who was near falling into unconsciousness. "What have we learned today, then?"

"Not to…not to mess around with…the wrong ladies," he managed to slur in reply, looking at Michael with unfocussed eyes.

"Very good," Michael replied patronisingly, patting him on the head. He grimaced as his hand caught a smear of blood from the hair, and wiped it off on George's shirt. "Now don't do it again, or we'll have to come back and finish the job, and we don't want, do we?"

George shook his head.

"Atta boy," Michael said. "Glad we've got an understanding, eh? Now you keep out of trouble, friend!"

He straightened up, adjusting his fedora before he strode out of the door, with a triumphant announcement of; "Gentlemen, our good deed for the day is complete. Now let's go and collect our well-earned reward, shall we?"

He led the way through the grimy corridors of Freeside's Weatherly Hotel, tipping his hat to the old woman who sat the ancient desk at the foyer of the hotel. She simply watched him go warily, the small sum of caps Michael had given her in exchange for George's room number already disappeared into a strongbox.

Being paid made everything look better, Michael thought, even as he looked upon the dingy slum that was Freeside, baking in the heat of the Mojave summer. The sun shone down without mercy, beating off the tarmac and the decrepit buildings, and most of the residents that could be indoors were hiding to escape the heat, while beggars and vagrants huddled in the shade afforded to them by the ruined buildings.

"How come I had to come along for this job?" Brutus asked as they made their way down the cracked and worn street.

"Freeside ain't safe, is it?" Michael said. "People would be trying to jump us all over the shop if you weren't here to scare them away."

"I could," Alex said.

"Alex, you're a goddamn kid," Michael replied. "A baby molerat isn't gonna be scared by you. I mean, three guys going along here by themselves, they'll think we're not too hard a target. But if there's four of us, and one of them's some big guy with a giant pincery robot arm, then they're gonna think twice about it, aren't they?"

"But I like the Strip," Brutus protested.

"All you'd be doing is gambling your hard-earned caps away or spending it to get balls deep in some guy in Gomorrah," Michael said. "I'm doing you a favour, buddy."

"He's gonna be doing that anyway," Ripley pointed out. "I was planning on it."

"Since when were _you_ into guys?" Alex asked.

"I meant with a ghoulette, idiot," Ripley snapped back. "God, you're stupid sometimes."

"Hey, shut up," Alex retorted.

"Oh, both of you can it!" Michael exclaimed despairingly. "Y'know, sometimes I wonder why I even bother with you people,"

They drew up at the gate to the Strip, the mesh fencing and crude concrete barricade blocking their way to the jewel of the Mojave. As always, the small guard of Securitrons was manning it, and one of the machines wheeled towards Michael, the cartoon policeman on the screen at the centre of the bulky blue robot's chassis scowling at him.

++State your business++ it demanded, its artificial voice harsh and grating.

"Just heading onto the Strip," Michael said.

++Credit check++ the Securitron ordered, in reply to which Michael held up a slip of paper.

"Corporate pass," he said. "Anston and Co."

There was a whirr, before the machine announced ++Pass verified. Carry on through++

The gate slid open as the Securitron wheeled aside, and four fifths of Aston and Co. stepped through into the most wondrous place on earth.

Even in the middle of the day, the New Vegas Strip glowed, neon ablaze even in the harsh glare of the sun. To their left rose the vacant Lucky 38 Casino, the sign advertising its famous revolving restaurant vandalised by some joker long ago to replace the second 'V' with a harsh black 'T'. On the other side of the street, bedecked in crackling flames of ionised gas, Gomorrah beckoned with the gaudy lure of debauchery and pleasure, while the Tops promised riches galore right down to the suited guards standing outside. Vault-21's unbecoming façade seemed to both hide and flaunt the potential hidden below, while the Ultra-Luxe sat apart and aloof from its base brethren, superior in every aspect.

Michael ignored these beguiling sights for one that he found standing before him. Sunlight glistened off red hair, pouting crimson lips smiled at him alluringly, and Doris stepped forward from the kerb to grab Michael in an embrace and kiss him. So what if that beauty was through the work of the expensive, rare commodity of makeup? She still looked damn good in Michael's eyes.

"Hey baby," he said after a moment, still holding her waist and grinning at her. "How you doing?"

"I'm not happy, hun," she said. "You know I don't like it when you go off for work when you're supposed to be having fun. And you dragged the others with you as well! That ain't fair on them, sweetie."

"Told you," Brutus said.

"Hey, I got an opportunity and I took it," Michael said defensively, kissing her again. "What's wrong with that?"

"Oh, honey, you shouldn't just waltz off like that," Doris protested, though her heart wasn't in it. "You know I don't like being excluded from things."

"Hey, it was dirty work," Michael replied. "You know I don't like you getting involved in that stuff."

"So busting Raider dens, doing drug runs for the Khans and getting knee-deep in lakelurks and molerats ain't dirty work?" Doris asked.

"Ah, c'mon, you were having such a nice time at the Ultra-Luxe I thought it wouldn't be fair to drag you away," Michael said. "Besides, you know me; I take an opportunity when I get it. That's why you hooked up with me, baby. You said I was destined for great things, remember? I had the ambition you looked for in a guy."

He kissed her again, and she giggled.

"Forgive me?" he asked.

"Alright, honey, you know I can't stay angry at you for long," she said. "And I suppose we've got the rewards of this little opportunity taking, ain't we?"

"'Xactly," Michael said. "Don't say I don't treat you nice, eh?"

"Hey, lovebirds," Alex interjected. "You gonna give us our caps any time soon?"

"Alright, alright," Michael said. "Doris, sweetie, you got 'em? Don't want all my hard work being for nothing."

"Yeah, _your_ hard work," Ripley muttered.

"Hey, I'm the brains of this operation," Michael retorted. "And delegation is part of leadership, isn't it? Besides, I ended up getting blood on my hands; you know how I hate it when that happens."

"Oh boohoo," Ripley snorted. "Anyway, the caps?"

"Sure, sure," Doris said, pulling a pouch from her pocket. "Payment was two hundred and fifty caps, so fifty each."

"Ah c'mon, that's barely enough to get a lapdance or nothin'," Alex complained.

"Hey, they've got slot machines and roulette tables in Gomorrah, haven't they?" Michael asked. "Might get lucky and win big. Besides, what happened to the rest of your cash?"

"Lost it all in poker," Alex mumbled, blushing slightly.

"Typical," Ripley muttered, the ghoul shaking his head.

"Ah, just blush like that around a couple of rich-looking ladies and they'll probably take pity on you," Brutus said. "It's what you always seem to do, anyway."

"Hey, I'm a charmer," Alex said. "What can I say?"

"Whatever works for ya," Michael said, handing out the caps. "You guys go and enjoy your night."

"You not coming with?" Brutus asked.

"I'm not letting my Michael into that place with you people," Doris declared. "I'd be a single woman before the morning."

"And be with some moneyed up Chairman by the next," Ripley remarked disparagingly, getting a vicious glare from Doris.

"We'll be at the Tops," Michael said. "You want to meet us tomorrow?"

"Sure, outside the Lucky 38," Brutus said.

"Great," Michael grinned, clapping his hands together. "Go have a little fun, fellas."

The three turned towards the hive of sin to drink and gamble the day away, and as Michael and Doris began to wend their way to the tops the redhead laid a hand on his arm and said; "Hey, sweetie…"

"I know that voice," Michael said, an edge of humorous weariness to his voice. "You're gonna ask me for something, aren't you?"

"You know me too well, hun," Doris said. "I was wondering though; could I borrow a few caps?"

"What? What happened to the ones you had when we came here?"

"Oh, come on, it's the Strip," Doris protested. "What do you think happened to them?"

Michael shook his head despairingly.

"God dammit, did you lose them on the slots again?" he asked.

"What? I like those," Doris protested. "You can win real big."

"Doris, I've told you a thousand times, the slots are a goddamn scam," Michael said. "The odds against you are way too high."

"Hey, people win on them," Doris protested as the couple stepped back onto the curb towards the spacious driveway of the Tops.

"Well yeah, a _couple_ of people win on them so they can fool everyone else like the gullible suckers they are," Michael said, before hastily adding; "Not saying you're one though, baby. But we're using these caps on the poker table, alright? That's how we'll win big."

"Whatever you say, sweetie," Doris replied somewhat half-heartedly, but as they approached the doors of the Tops, one of the suited guards pulling it open for them, Michael wasn't listening.

He could already feel the money flowing into his pockets.

* * *

**For some of you reading this, yes, this is a repost of my old Once Upon a Time in New Vegas story. There are a few tweaks here and there, but up until Chapter 10 it's pretty much the same beast as before. This time, however, I intend to continue it past Chapter 9 and hopefully finish the damn thing.**

**Any comments or reviews will be warmly appreciated, and I hope you've enjoyed what you've read so far and what you will go on to read next.  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** For the sake of making things nice and clear, Michael's monologues are indicated in italics. He should, at the moment, be the only narrator who intersperses the prose.

And by all means, critique, comment and generally let me know what you think; I'm happy to hear it all.

Or else I'll set Brutus on you…

Chapter 2

_Money? Money never changes._

_Just over two hundred years ago, when mankind beat the ever-lovin' beejesus out of itself with nukes, there were two things that seemed set to stick around in spite the of radiation and the mutants; war, and money. Turns out, it seems, you take away the civilisation but kept the cash, people would still hang on to the stuff. We'd come a long way from the barter system which, believe me, ain't too good in the first place, and we didn't want to get rid of our precious cash._

_So what if notes became Nuka-Cola caps and the banks were gone? We still had money, didn't we? One commodity exchanged for another, facilitated by lovely little bright red disks of metal. _

_So the new world became divided; on one side there were those who were only interested in war, the raiders and folks like Caesar's Legion, and on the other those who were interested in cash and keeping things nice and civilised, like all the caravan companies or the NCR. So where do Anston and Co. sit in all this? We sit right in the middle, that's where. You pay us enough, and we'll kill whatever you want us to._

_So who are we, then? _

_First off, there's me._

"I'm raising," Michael said, pushing a small pile of chips into the centre of the table. The off-duty NCR trooper sitting opposite him cast him a suspicious look, while the caravan trader was beginning to look nervous at the amount the suited, goateed mercenary was placing on the table, his girlfriend on the seat next to him grinning maliciously.

"I fold," the trooper said suddenly, placing his cards down on the table. The caravaneer looked nervous, and with that prompt, he did the same.

"Looks like they're all out," Michael said to the dealer. "Stick out the last cards, will ya?"  
The dealer nodded, before placing the final card on the table. Michael laid out his; a two and a five, practically worthless and not even with a pair. The NCR trooper cursed, and the caravaneer simply glared at him as Michael grinned triumphantly and collected the chips.

_I've met a lot of people in this line of work and they've got a lot of reasons for doing it; some of them think they're heroes, others are out to make as much of a mess as they possibly can and everything in between, but for me, it's all about the money. Nothing more, and nothing less; money, pure and simple. Best way to get paid, I figured, was to go out and hurt people. There'll always be someone, somewhere, who needs somebody else's head kicked in, and I'll be there with a boot, a smile and the best customer service in the Mojave Wasteland. Of course, I won't be doing the kicking, god no; I'm a businessman, an entrepreneur, not a goddamn barbarian. Hell, I'm a pacifist, for god's sake; never hurt my fellow man in my life. It's just that I employ people who don't share my fine code of morals and are damn good at hurting my fellow man for me._

_My second in command is Brutus, god love 'im. He's saved my life more times than I care to count and sure, Anston and Co. look out for each other, but Brutus and I are a real team; he's the muscle, and I'm the brains. Big guy ain't dumb, though; sure, he ain't as sharp as yours truly here, but everyone seems to think that if he's got the muscle power then he ain't got any thinking power. Piece of advice; not true. But it takes people by surprise, and hey, surprises are fun._

_He's ex-Legion, got chucked out somehow, but I'm not sure how. I always figured that he'd tell me what happened if he wanted to, and he probably wouldn't appreciate me being nosy. I found him about three years back, wandering up near Goodsprings with his left arm chopped off at the shoulder and pretty much crazy with thirst and hunger; only reason nothing had killed him yet because he was so big he scared them off. I guess I could've left him there, but I figured that a guy like that had potential, and I'm not one to pass up an opportunity; take life by the horns, that's what I always say. So off I dragged him to the doctor in town, and a couple of stimpaks, some water and a few antibiotics and he was right as rain. Took the guy for a drink, explained who I was and what I wanted, and he agreed to sign up with me. Of course, some ex-NCR guy took exception to Brutus wearing Caesar's Legion gear, but before I even had a chance to talk him down Brutus just picked him up and threw him out the window so hard his neck snapped like a twig when he landed. My intuition had been right all along; paying the caps to get him fixed was the best investment I ever made._

_Anyway, we got him hooked up with his robot arm thanks to some guy called Doctor Henry in Jacobstown, and after that, we stuck together. I found us jobs to do, and then we did them; we built ourselves a bit of a name out in the Waste, found ourselves some gainful employment. Even in those first days, we were one hell of a team._

"Now look fellas, you and I both know that shooting me isn't going to be a good idea," Michael said calmly, hands held nice and clearly in the air where the three individuals pointing the rifles at him could see them. "We've got NCR patrolling these roads, and let's face it, a corpse on a route as busy as this one isn't something they're going to be able to ignore."

"Stow it," the one in the centre said, prodding Michael in the chest with his rifle. "If I wanted to hear you beg I'd be telling you to beg already."

"Look," Michael said. "All I'm saying is, you shoot me and all you're going to do is bring down every trooper in the nearest ten miles on your heads. But if you let me go, then that's going to be a problem."

"Guy's got a point," the one on the left said, glancing over at his leader in the middle. "Unless he's Mr House or something he's probably not got the caps on him to make it worth the trouble."

The central bandit weighed that up for a moment, before said; "Maybe your right. Hand over all your caps and we'll let you go."

"Okay, that seems a fair deal," Michael said, slowly. "Buuuut, I might just make you a counter-offer."

"What's that gonna be?" their leader asked with a derisive snort, a sneer curling across his features. "You're not really in a position to bargain, now are you?"

It morphed into an expression of wide eyed terror as a metal claw wrapped around his skull and lifted him upwards, squeezing just enough to let the unfortunate victim of its attention know that it could crush the bone with ease. One of the bandits raised their rifle to point at the huge figure that had loomed behind him before a fist grabbed the weapon and wrenched it from their grasp. The same bandit was grabbed by the collar and hurled into his comrade, the two of them tumbling away, weapons scattering on the floor. The giant figure hadn't even bothered to draw the great machete at his belt.

Michael calmly picked them up from where they lay, slinging the rifle over his shoulder and taking the pistol in hand.

"Here's my new offer," Michael said. "You hand over all your caps, and Brutus here won't crush your boss' head."

From where they lay on the floor, the two would-be highwaymen looked up at their leader.

"Do what he says!" he choked desperately, fear in his eyes as he grabbed onto the lower pincer to stop himself from being strangled.

Hesitantly, Michael's stolen weapon pointed quite calmly at them, they stood, turning out their pockets and placing the caps and NCR dollars within carefully on the ground. Michael gestured for them to step away before sweeping the currency, before he nodded to Brutus. The bandit held in his iron grasp fell to his knees as the massive mercenary dropped him, gasping in relief.

"You too," Michael said, stepping next to him and nudging him with his foot. "Come on, pay up."

His nose wrinkled, and he added; "You didn't piss yourself, did you? Really? God, man, that's disgusting."

The bandit ignored him, suddenly reaching for the carbine he'd dropped before Michael kicked the battered and scratched weapon away and said; "Caps, before I let Brutus have his fun."

"Alright, alright," he grumbled, before reaching into his pockets and picking the discs of metal out. "There, that's all we've got. Now will you let us go?"

Brutus glanced at Michael as he picked up the man's carbine, who nodded. The ex-Legionary gently kicked the bandit in the backside and sent him sprawling, before Michael said; "Yeah, you're free to get out of here."

The man scrambled to his feet as one of the others asked; "Can we at least have our weapons back?"

"You stupid or what?" Michael said. "Course you can't."

"What?" the other protested. "We'll be killed!"

Michael shrugged.

"Should've thought of that before you tried to rob me," he said. "See ya round, gentlemen."

_Sure, we weren't the biggest players in the game, but we were making good money. We were a small scale company, so we did small scale jobs; short contracts, a few beatings and business killings, that sort of thing. And then one day, we met Doris. _

_Lady says she picked us out from the crowd in Gomorrah when she saw the ambition in me, but that isn't true. What she saw was Brutus' muscles, but when she found out he wasn't interested in the ladies she picked out the next best thing, which was me. I don't blame her, but hey, we're happy now. In love. Weirdest thing; I always figured that you aren't gonna get love out here in the Wasteland, but boy, she still doesn't fail to take my breath away after all this time. Turns out she's pretty handy with explosives; apparently she was in one of the NCR's railway gangs for a little while before she broke out, picked up a few tips on how to use dynamite and the like. Course, she isn't so good with money as I am, but with me around to look after her, that isn't as big a deal as it could be. Sure I have to cover for her sometimes, but so what? Small price to pay, I reckon._

_Next up in the little happy family that's Anston and Co. is Alex. He's an interesting one; picked him up in the Bison Steve Hotel in Primm. Funny story, that_.

The bar was quiet, and every eye that dared to look was on Brutus. The massive ex-Legionary was a commanding sight, hunched over the counter and a couple of empty bottles of Sunset Sarsaparilla. The glances at him were furtive, nobody wanting to make trouble this size, and Michael and Doris were enjoying the privacy that their attention-demanding companion gave them, together in a quieter corner of the bar. There was only one exception to that rule, a dark skinned kid who kept giving him a kind of cocky grin. It was beginning to get on Brutus' nerves.

"What're you looking at, kid?" he suddenly asked, a glare shot in his direction, resting his bionic on the bar before him and nonchalantly flexing the claw. Usually, Brutus found, that was enough to scare off any would-be challengers.

"Nothin'," came the all-too composed reply, that smirk still staying in place.

Brutus shrugged, before he stood and a massive hand reached over to enact the usual solution to such a problem, to crush it into the surface. He figured he'd be merciful, seeing as it was just a kid and a pretty looking one at that, slam just the side of it down instead of doing his usual manoeuvre of sending any potential aggressors' faces into their glasses and then grind it down a bit.

And the kid was gone.

The next thing he knew, the breath had been knocked from his lungs and Brutus was doubled over, the kid already bolting for the door. Michael grabbed his shoulder and hauled him up a moment later, and snapped; "Brutus, what the hell are you waiting for? Get after him!"

"Why the hell…would I want to go after him?" Brutus panted. "Dunno what he did, but…Jesus, my stomach!"

"Hello, idiot, he just got _you_ down," Michael said, already dragging his much larger colleague towards the exit. "I'm finding that kid and offering him a job!"

_Alex is a funny one. On one hand, he's got the cutest face you've ever seen on a guy; ladies are all over him, and with good reason, and he's almost as good a charmer as I am. To be honest, if I ever get too old for this stuff he's the first person I'd pass the business to; he's good at talking to people, has a head for numbers and folks just like him, and public relations are important in this line of work; you get a bad rep and nobody's gonna pay you. But there's always been something kind of…funny about Alex._

_Turned out he'd been drifting since he was a kid, all across the Mojave. Now don't get me wrong, nobody's ever gonna live a nice, comfortable sheltered life out here, but with nobody to look after you then half the time all you can survive on is being vicious and quiet. _

_Most of the time he's pretty normal, but he gets moments when he seems crazier than a Nightkin on Psycho, just gets real sadistic, on a scary scale. On the other hand, he's quick, quiet and doesn't have any problems with killing people, so generally I'll send him out on his lonesome for the precisions jobs we sometimes get asked to do. Besides, he's either sane most of the time or at least acting like he is, so that keeps him outta trouble. In any, case he's even better up close than Brutus is; that's what got him into this line of work. Thing is, when you're fighting Alex, he doesn't really care about winning, or skill or nothing like that. It's wasteland logic; all he wants to do is kill you as quickly as he possibly can so he's got the most time to get out of trouble. So he hits where it hurts the most and where it'll get you down the quickest. Not too bad a philosophy, I reckon._

_So finally, there's Ripley. Ghoul seems to have been everywhere and done everything; run with the NCR Rangers, worked with the Shi up in San Francisco, even apparently fought against the Master in the Boneyard. Half of it's Brahmin-crap, but he's got a good few stories of his so I let him lie. Generally, Ripley seems to be our scout, sniper and survivalist; he's hunted everything from bighorns to raiders to Deathclaws, and if he hasn't skinned it, cooked it or taken the valuables off its corpse, it ain't real. _

_He's a funny story, Ripley. Only member of the company to approach us and out-and-out ask for a job, not the other way round. Said he needed caps, and that we had potential, and so I took him on; considering how useful he is, I'd be an idiot not to. Sure he's got a bit of a mouth on him, but he does what I tell him and that's what matters. _

_So there we go. Our band of merry men. We're here, we're staying, and we're gonna get every cap from this patch of desert that we possibly can. Because there's money to be made out here, big money, and we're gonna make it. _

_We're gonna make it whatever the goddamn cost._


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"We're rich, we're rich, we're really goddamn rich! We're rich, we're rich, we're really goddamn rich!"

As Michael celebrated, the Strip was ablaze. Neon glared from every sign, tickling his senses as he danced on the cracked concrete outside the Tops, whooping and cheering to the clear dome of the desert's night-time sky. Buzzing on Jet and pure euphoria, he clapped his hands, grinning at the panoply of light and music before him, raising his arms like a man caught in religious rapture, turning on the spot and grabbing Doris in an embrace before kissing her roughly on the cheeks.

"Honey, calm down," she protested, laughing in any case.

"Calm down? Calm down?" Michael said. "I've just landed us the biggest job we've got yet! Why the hell should I want to calm down? I'm king of the world, here! I'm Caesar, Papa Khan, President Kimball and Mr goddamn House all rolled into one at the moment! I'm a frickin' god! Why should I be calm?"

"Sweety, it's just the Gun Runners," Doris said, raising a hand to try and calm her lover. "I mean, they're not that big, and it's not even that huge a job."

"Not that big? _Not that big?!_ Doris, baby, they're one of the richest merchant families to come out of the New California Republic, and they said that they'd heard that we were good," Michael said. "They'd _heard_ that we were good! That's what matters, don't you get it? _They_ approached _us_, not the other way round! That's big news, sweety, huge news! Those guys are big fish, and they wanted, above all the other merc groups in this area, us. They went and looked us up!"

_Let me take a minute to explain here. In the merc business, reputation is everything. Y'see, every time you hire out a mercenary, you're taking a risk, making a gamble. Yeah, sure, they might do the job, but then again they might just the down payment and then leave, or sell on whatever it was you wanted to pick up to a higher bidder. But the problem with that is that nobody wants to employ you once word gets round, and soon enough you find yourself scavenging or in a gang. Even the big players like Talon Company over in the east eventually went down that way, once they got cocky; though apparently some unkillable wastlander started going after them as well, this 'Lone Wanderer' all the trading caravans keep from over there going on about (and if you believe half the stories about that guy it seems he can shoot lasers from his eyes and kill people just by yelling at them). Anyway that's where Anston and Co. differ; our business plan revolves around us being one hundred percent reliable, so that people didn't just employ us once, but kept coming back to us again and again. Our goal was long-term customer retention; that was where the real money was._

"Right, we gotta find the others, tell them about it," Michael declared. "Man, they're gonna love this!"

"Michael, maybe we should wait until tomorrow?" Doris suggested. "Y'know, let them enjoy their evening; you already dragged them out for a job once today."

"No way, we've gotta get on this now," Michael said. "C'mon!"

He hurried along the cracked and battered paving stones, Doris in his wake, riding the ethereal wave of the Jet as well as his own greedy joy. He barely waited for the guards at the entrance to Gomorrah to pull the door open for him before he was through, drawing his pistol and handing it handle first to the bouncer there who collected weapons from the patrons.

"Where's Brutus?" he asked the man he had just given his weapon to.

"Brutus?"

"Big guy, good six feet tall, Caesar's Legion-style gear, giant robot arm. Can't miss him," Michael said. "I need to talk to him."

"And you are?"

"His boss, damn it. Where is he?"

"I can't say myself, but if you want to wait here and I can ask…"

"No point, I'll find him myself," Michael said, stepping past him. He hurried through the main hallway of the casino, past the main gambling floor bedecked in grubby, ancient marble, walls decorated with peeling pink-red paper. Through a corridor he went, into the main theatre of Gomorrah, a huge, dingy room bedecked in faded, crumbling gold leaf, more slot machines lining the wall while part of the hall housed roulette, blackjack and poker tables. Brutus was to one side, leaning back in a large Brahmin-leather chair while some androgynous kid who seemed even younger than Alex cavorted and gyrated on his lap, the Legionary's contented grin indicating his approval at the services he had just bought.

"Brutus," Michael called. "Hey, Brutus!"

He hurried over, the Legionary finally catching Michael's gaze before the merc stopped by the chair where Brutus was enjoying himself. The kid glanced over his shoulder at Michael as he performed some kind of complex turning manoeuvre on the giant's lap.

"Brutus," Michael said. "I need to talk to you."

"Can't it wait, Mike?" Brutus asked, gesturing to the kid.

"No it can't," Michael replied. "For god's sake man, I've got a job, a proper job. Get the kid out the way, will you? I'm trying to talk to you here."

"It's a job," Brutus said. "Great. It can wait until tomorrow."

The kid, on the other hand, ignored Michael and continued his dance with a nod of approval from Brutus.

"No it can't," Michael said. "We do the job tomorrow, right now we _plan_ it."

"We can plan it tomorrow as well," Brutus countered, not really listening. Michael shoved the kid off Brutus, the dancer falling to the ground with a startled yelp. He shot a reproachful glare at the CEO of Anston and Co. and Michael tossed him a handful of caps, saying; "Get lost, kid, we're talking here."

A tip was a tip, and the boy gathered them up and scurried away.

"Hey, I was enjoying that!" Brutus protested, before Michael grabbed him by the shoulders, leaning close as he said; "Brutus, buddy, we've got bigger things to deal with here. It's a big job, the biggest we've ever had!"

Brutus was quiet for a moment, before he said; "You've been taking Jet again, haven't you Mike?"

"And what?" Michael asked. "You're not in the Legion any more, what do you care? And for the last damn time, we have bigger things to deal with here!"

"Fine, what is it?" Brutus asked.

"The Gun Runners," Michael said. "The goddamn Gun Runners went and gave us a job. They approached us, Brutus, one of the big players approached _us_."

"You sure it was one of them?" Brutus asked.

"It was that Alexander guy," Michael said. "Y'know, the one who gets most of their business with the caravans and up at Hoover Dam?"

"Yeah, I know the one," Brutus said. "So what's the job?"

"I'll explain once everyone's here," Michael said. "Where're Alex and Ripley?"

Brutus thought for a moment, before he shrugged and said; "No idea. Could be anywhere."

Michael was quiet for a moment, before he kicked over a chair and swore.

"Heya Mick," Michael said nonchalantly as he entered the small Freeside store. He took the sunglasses he usually wore off so that he could see in the dingy, dim ambience of the shop's overhead striplights, and grinned at the shopkeeper of Mick and Ralph's. "How you doing?"

"I'm alright, yeah," Mick replied cautiously from his place behind the counter, watching Michael as he headed towards the counter through one of the store's two aisles of shelving. "What can I do for you, Michael? You looking to buy?"

"Just wanted some information, that's all," Michael said. "Y'know, part of our contract."

_The 'contract' that Anston and Co. held with most of the shopkeepers in Freeside was not, before you ask, protection. We paid a fair price for their goods, and we didn't ask for any caps; poor guys had enough to pay all the other gangs and thugs around there, and we put more pressure on them and we might end up with nowhere to resupply on vital goods. Instead, our deal was a fair one; you give us information when we need it, and Brutus doesn't smash the place up and rip your arms off._

"Can't say I know anything important," Mick said. "Nothing interesting's come up."

"Ahuh?" Michael asked. "Y'know, new business deals, stuff like that."

"Er…no," Mick replied. "Nothing like that."

Michael raised an eyebrow and asked; "You sure? You sound a little…uncertain."

The rusted bell that hung over Mick and Ralph's door tinkled merrily as it swung open, Brutus' huge silhouette ducking under the frame and stepping inside. His claw rested on the top of one of the shelves, indicating calmly that, while he wouldn't right now, it would be very, very easy to send all of its fragile contents crashing down.

"Look, I don't know anything," Mick insisted.

"Really?" Michael asked. "I want you to think _real_ hard about this."

"Hey, if I call Ralph in here-" Mick began before Brutus interrupted with; "Then I'll tear his head off."

The shelf began to tip gently, a stimpak syringe sliding gently off and skittering on the bare concrete floor.

"Alright, alright!" Mick said defensively, raising his hands. "What do you want to know?"

"We need to know about any shipments you've got coming in," Michael said. "Specifically, ones of guns."

"There was one guy," Mick said. "Said he could get me a bulk load of them at cut price."

"Which guy?" Michael asked, leaning forwards across the counter.

"Name of Feyman," Mick replied. "Antony Feyman. He didn't tell me where he got the guns, and the deal was too good to turn down."

"Feyman," Michael said. "Alright, good. Where can we find this guy?"

"I was going to meet him by the Mormon Fort where the Followers of the Apocalypse stay," Mick said. "Arranging details and that sort of thing."

"When?" Michael asked.

"Three p.m. today," Mick replied. "That's all I know. Are you done?"

"Yeah, we're good," Michael said as Brutus gently let the shelf fall back upright. "Thanks very much, Mick; I appreciate you helping us."

He nodded to Brutus as he headed for the door, the two of them stepping out onto the strip. Michael snapped his shades open and slid them on to protect his eyes from the glare, removing his fedora to fan himself for a moment before placing it with the brim forwards to try and shade his face a little.

"So, Mormon Fort, three p.m.," he said to Brutus. "Anthony Feyman. Looks like we've got our guy."

Brutus nodded; "Seems a pretty easy job, I'd say. Nice way to get three grand."

"I dunno," Michael said. "They wouldn't be paying this much if they thought it would be simple. Whoever was able to steal an entire weapon shipment from the gun runners either has a lot of muscle or a lot of smarts."

"So you reckon Feyman isn't the guy we want?" Brutus asked as they set out through Freeside, past the ancient, rusted shells of cars and crumbling buildings.

"Nah," Michael said. "He's probably a middle man or something. Still, we can trace him back to whoever's responsible."

Brutus nodded.

"Makes sense, I guess," he said, as they reached crossroads that lead towards the Atomic Wrangler Casino and the Silver Rush, home to the main rivals of the Gun Runners, the Van Graff family. Ripley was lounging against the wall, the necrotic ghoul leering cheerfully at the girl who worked as the crier for the Atomic Wrangler before he noticed his two colleagues approaching.

"Hey boss," he called, pushing away from the wall and heading towards them. "How'd the shakedown at Mick and Ralph's go?"

"Pretty good," Michael said. "I thought I asked you to go ask around in the Wrangler."

"Yeah, but there were a bunch of guys giving me lip and calling me zombie and so on, and management wanted me out before they started a scene," Ripley replied. He spat up a gobbet of thick phlegm in disgust. "Goddamn bigots."

He shrugged, before adding; "Anyway, Doris and Alex are asking around inside. Hopefully they'll have something."

It was then that the door to Wrangler swung open and Doris and Alex emerged, both of them grinning triumphantly.

"You look pleased," Michael observed. "You get anything?"

"Feyman," Alex announced. "Anthony Feyman. Grilled a couple of merchants, said they had a shipment of guns coming from him. They were gonna meet him by the Old Mormon Fort-"

"At three p.m., I know," Michael said. "Got exactly the same piece of news."

"What's the time now?" Ripley asked.

"One," Michael replied, glauncing at the heavy gauntlet of his Pip-Boy. "Looks like we've got time to get things all worked out."

One of Michael's great talents was the fact that he could, for all intents and purposes, turn completely invisible when he wanted to. A trick he'd learnt long ago, all he needed to do was lean against the fort's tan brick wall, fedora resting gently over his eyes to shelter him from the harsh glare of the sun, and adopt an air of such calm nonchalance that people's gazes simply slid away from here. And so here he was, serenely smoking a cigarette and waiting.

Brutus was a few streets away, the Legionary's massive profile far too noticeable for this sort of job, and instead Ripley was waiting with his scoped hunting rifle in an empty, derelict building down the street, while Alex and Doris were concealed in the alleyway opposite. All they needed to do was wait.

The clock hit three, and Michael watched as a figure in the usual heavy gear that most wasteland traders wore walked up the ancient, poorly looked after street, hand resting on the butt of a pistol by his belt. He stopped by the fort, looking around at its occupants for a moment; he subconsciously missed Michael, despite the fact that with his white suit with dark pinstripe he was easily the most extravagantly dressed person there, seeing a few beggars that huddled in the shade provided by the yawning maw of a long-broken shop window, a couple of Followers of the Apocalypse returning from their daily rounds with a Brahmin laden with water barrels. The merchant cast around once more for anyone familiar, before he settled into place with one hand in his pocket and the other still resting on the grip of his weapon.

"Anthony Feyman?" Michael asked suddenly, stepping forwards into view. The guy turned suddenly, jumping before he challenged; "Who wants to know?"

"Name's Michael Anston. I was looking for you, hoping to find out about a shipment of weapons."

Feyman glared at him suspiciously, before he said; "You're not one of the people I contacted."

"Well done," Michael said sarcastically. "Have a cookie, pal. Now, I want to know a few things about that."

"And why the hell should I tell you?" Feyman asked, slipping his pistol out of its holster. He paused as he felt something chill and sharp pressing against the back of his neck.

"Don't," Alex said from behind him.

"I'd recommend you put that gun down, friend," Michael said in a tone that didn't seem all that friendly. Obediently, the pistol clattered to the floor. "Now, I'm gonna ask you some questions and you're gonna give me some answers. If you don't, Alex is gonna start cutting little pieces off you, bit by bit."

"Alright, alright," Feyman said. "Look, I don't want any trouble."

"Glad to hear," Michael said warmly, clapping Feyman on the shoulder. "Now, these guns. Where're you getting them?"

"There's a load of guys I'm buying them from who stole them in the middle of desert," Feyman said, the bead of sweat currently tracking along the side of his head probably not just from the heat. "I'm getting them at a low price, and I've already got businesses to sell it on. It ain't much, but the profits from it are gonna be big anyway."

"Which guys, and when and where are you meeting them?" Michael asked.

"I'm meeting them later, up by Broken Tooth Rock, at dusk, just to the east of here," Feyman blurted out, still too aware of the blade Alex had resting on the back of his neck.

"Alright, and who are these people?" Michael asked.

"Look, what does it matter to you?" Feyman pleaded. "I mean, I'm just trying to make a living here, that's all."

"Just tell me who they are, Feyman," Michael insisted. "Now, or I'll let Alex go to work."

"They're Caesar's Legion!" Feyman said. "Alright?"

"Caesar's Legion?" Michael said. "Well well well, looks like our day just got a lot more interesting."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Why am I even here?" Feyman whined as he stumbled on a pothole in the parched, hard earth of the Mojave desert.

"Because," Michael said. "We don't trust you enough to just send us to the wrong rock and get the hell out of town before we get back to kick your head in, that's why."

He looked at the great expanse of dry, compacted earth, bordered by distant mountains to the north and the Colorado to very east, the direction they were headed now. If Freeside was hot, it was worse out here, the sun beating on dead earth with the merciless, ferocity of a slaver's whip. The only breaks in the terrain were a few rocky outcrops and the half-collapsed skeleton of a house, while New Vegas lounged opulently behind them to the west, the city a thousand-cap hooker glowing in her neon makeup even in the day.

"God, I hate the desert," he muttered, tugging at his collar, sticky with sweat.

"Maybe if you didn't wear a suit all the damn time that wouldn't be a problem," Ripley said in his usual hoarsely disparaging tone.

"Hey, my suit is a damn fine piece of tailoring," Michael said. "Besides, I'm a businessman. I've got to look the part."

"We're in the middle of the desert," Ripley said. "Who the hell's gonna care?"

"I'll care, that's who," Michael replied defiantly, taking a swig of water from the canteen he had in his pocket.

Not really listening to their conversation, Feyman broke in; "And why am I paying you people to do this to me?"

"You're employing us as bodyguards to protect your person in the dangerous area of the eastern Mojave," Michael said, slightly exasperated. "We went over this in Freeside, remember?"

"And what are you supposed to be protecting me from?" Feyman challenged.

"Us putting a bullet in you and leaving you for the coyotes, that's what," Ripley said.

"Exactly!" Feyman exclaimed. "This isn't bodyguarding, it's blackmail!"

Michael shook his head, before he glanced over his shoulder at Doris, a few metres behind them and said; "Doris, can you have a turn looking after the idiot here? I'm getting bored of hearing him talk."

"Fine," Doris said reluctantly, trudging forwards a little faster as Ripley and Michael dropped back.

"Look, boss, in all seriousness, I'm kind of worried about the big guy here," Ripley said, nodding to Brutus at his place in the front, the giant ex-legionary's bionic left arm whining rhythmically as he walked. "For all we know, this job could end up with us shooting at these Legion guys that Feyman's supposed to be meeting, and I'm not sure whose side he's going to be on."

"Brutus has got my back," Michael replied. His usual hyperactively flippant tone had gone for a moment, his high-pitched, slightly nasal voice more serious for a moment. "We can trust him."

"Look, I know he's been with you for a while, but you know how loyal Legion folks are supposed to be to their Caesar guy," Ripley replied.

"I said we can trust him," Michael said. "And we're gonna trust him."

Ripley shrugged.

"Fine," he grated. "But if we end up having to put a bullet in his head then don't say I didn't warn you, boss."

Michael shrugged, and continued to trudge onwards through the desert.

_I suppose a bit of an explanation is in order before I get any further; most of you are probably wondering why Caesar's Legion were stooping so low as to nick weapons from the Gun Runners, ain't ya? _

_Basically, turned out those weapons were going to the NCR's armouries through the Gun Runners. A Legion scouting party heard about it and decided to steal them all instead, deny supplies to the enemy, and then, so they had some way to get rid of them somewhere where the NCR couldn't just find them and pick them up, sell them off to various merchants around the Mojave to make them pretty much impossible to get back. So they contacted Feyman and he agreed to sell them on for them, dispose of them quietly. Only problem for them was us. Still, the guys aren't Fiends; I was hoping we might be able to negotiate a deal with them. Do things nice and civilised._

"I can see people coming," Ripley announced, sighting through his scope.

"How many?" Michael asked.

"I count ten," the ghoul replied. "All on horseback, Legion gear."

"That must be them," Feyman said.

"Yeah, wonder what gave you that clue?" Michael muttered. "Alright everyone, let's keep nice and calm. No need for things to turn into a shootout."

Alex made himself scarce, Ripley moving up to a firing better position, while Doris made sure her lighter and a few sticks of dynamite were in easy reach. Michael remained standing next to his unwilling client, while Brutus quietly watched the riders approach through the miniature canyons formed by the ridges of this part of the Mojave's hillier region. Gap Tooth Rock was the biggest of the lot, more like a small hill than anything else, and from their position they could see the horsemen get closer, breaking free of the rocks and gently trotting towards the slope before them, machetes, rifles and machine pistols within easy reach should they choose to use them.

"Feyman," the one at the front called out, the distinctive feathers around his headdress marking him out as Decanus, the leader of the group. He glanced at the members of Anston and Co. who were visible. "Who are these people?"

"These are-" Feyman began, before the Decanus held up a hand for him to be quiet, looking over at Brutus and asking; "An tu, Brute?"

"Etiam," Brutus replied. "Non novi vos diu, Calidius."

"The hell are they saying?" Doris asked Michael while the one Brutus had addressed as Calidius dismounted to talk to his gigantic former comrade.

"It's Latin," Michael said as the two continued their conversation in their foreign tongue. "Just let him do the talking for now, alright."

He frowned after a moment, and then said; "He'd better not tell them about the job we're doing here."

Calidius broke off his conversation with Brutus before he headed to Michael and said; "I understand that you're currently Brutus' employer."

"That I am," Michael said warmly. "Michael Anston, C.E.O of Anston and Co."

"Indeed," Calidius said. "Decanus Calidius of Caesar's Legion. Brutus tells me that you're currently accompanying Mr Feyman here in the capacity of bodyguards."

"That's right," Michael replied. "Something about a weapons pickup."

"Yeah, about that-" Feyman began, before Calidius interrupted with; "Later. It's fortunate you're here, Michael Anston. We might be in need of some help."

"Help's what Anston and Co. do best," Michael replied. "For a price, of course."

"Decanus," one of the mounted Legionaries behind Calidius asked. "You aren't going to be employing…_mercenaries_?"

The last word was spat out, layered with contempt.

"The Legion has employed auxiliaurii before," Calidius replied. "Besides, we have good grounds to."

"What's your problem?" Michael asked.

"There's an NCR patrol that has been tracking us for the past day," Calidius said. "We need your help with dealing with them."

"What's in it for us?" Michael asked.

"The Legion's coffers should be able to spare you five aureii, if you're willing to help us," Calidius said.

"Sounds fair," Michael said. "But I'll want half up front."

"What?" Calidius asked.

"Company policy, in case you try to rip us off," Michael said. "All contracts have a fifty percent down payment for expenses and as a deposit. No up-front pay, no job, and you're dealing with those NCR on your own."

Calidius glowered at him, before he fished into a coin-purse at his belt and produced a handful of gold and silver coins.

"Two aureii and twelve denarii," he said, passing them to Michael, who quickly counted them before pocketing them in the inner pocket of his suit. "That should be the right sum."

"Seems good to me," Michael said. "So, whaddya want us to do for you?"

"So we're just gonna lead these NCR people into a trap?" Alex asked. "What if they don't buy it?"

"They probably won't," Michael said. "So we're gonna work for them instead. Tell them where the Legion ambush is, surround that and deal with those guys, then get the guns and return them to the Runners. It's perfect."

"What about the guns?" Doris pointed out. "We don't know where they are."

"We'll leave a Legion guy or two alive to grill," Michael replied. "No problem."

"Still sounds risky," Alex said.

"Look, it ain't perfect but unless you can think of anything better it's what we're doing," Michael replied. He surveyed the parched, scrubby plains before him, watching for anything approaching, noting a small group of riders rounding a small hillock. "Looks like someone's coming. Could be the NCR."

"Or Fiends," Ripley said.

"The Fiends are out west, idiot," Michael said. "Take a look at them through your scope or something, will you?"

Ripley glanced down it after a moment, before he said; "Yeah, looks like NCR."

"Alright, good," Michael said. "Alright everyone, just let me do the talking."

The riders got closer, khaki NCR uniform visible for all to see, and Michael waved at them, their steady canter slowing to a halt as they drew near.

"What can I do for you?" their leader asked, a sergeant's chevrons on each shoulder.

"You've been tracking a bunch of Caesar's Legion, right?" Michael asked them, getting a frown from the Sergeant.

"How did you know that?" he asked.

"I got paid by them to lead all you guys into an ambush of theirs up the road," Michael said. "But I figured I wouldn't do it."

Their leader nodded.

"Thanks for the tip," he said. "Where is this ambush?"

Michael held a hand, shaking his head.

"Ahuhuh," he said. "Not so fast, sarge. There's gonna be a price involved."

"It's not NCR policy to pay mercs, I'm afraid," the sergeant replied.

"Then just think of it as rewarding a good citizen for his contribution to local security," Michael said. "Alternatively, you could just walk on not knowing exactly where this ambush is. Maybe you'll all make it out alive, maybe not."

The NCR sergeant looked at him for a moment, a frown on his face, before he said; "How does one thousand NCR dollars sound?"

Michael quickly did the maths in his head, before he said; "Sounds fair."

"So where are they?" the sergeant asked, throwing a bundle of the dollars held together with an old elastic band to Michael, who flicked through the notes.

"Camped out over Broken Tooth Rock," Michael replied. "Waiting for us to lead you to them. You loop round to the east and then move up behind it from the north and you can beat them at their own game."

"Sounds like a plan," he said, before nodding to the Pip-Boy on Michael's wrist. "That thing got a working radio on it?"

"Sure does," Michael said, flicking on Radio New Vegas for a moment to demonstrate, a brief snippet of a saxophone solo playing sounding through before he snapped it off for a moment.

"Good," the NCR sergeant replied. "Set it to frequency nine three point two. I'll give you a few clicks on it when we're in position. Distract them until then, got it?"

"Understood," Michael said. "We'll be heading back. Oh, yeah, we need one of them alive, if you can do that. Got some info want to grill them for."

The sergeant nodded, pulling the reins of his horse out to east and cantering away, followed by the other seven troopers with him.

"That went well," Michael said, flicking through the bundle of notes once more before pocketing them. "Good work everybody."

"We didn't do anything," Ripley pointed out. "We just let you do the talking."

"'xactly," Michael said. "You did good work doing nothing and letting me do the talking. That's teamwork, ain't it? And you kept Feyman there nice and quiet."

_I didn't really want to drag that crapsack around with us, but I was worried he'd blab to the Legion about us, so I didn't have much choice. I couldn't really gag him without the NCR asking questions, so I just had Ripley hit him whenever he opened his damn mouth to say something. It worked, and Ripley seemed to like that job._

As they turned back, Alex suddenly said; "Hey boss, I thought you said that you didn't want us to rip off customers. That it was bad for long-term business."

"I said it was bad for business if you _don't get away with_ ripping off customers," Michael countered. "I mean, a Legion patrol disappears in the middle of enemy territory; who the hell is gonna question that? We, on the other hand, look good for helping out the NCR."

Alex shrugged, before he said; "Makes sense."

Anston and Co. headed back to defraud one of their customers.

The radio had clicked twice just as they were nearing Broken Tooth Rock, stepping into the bowl just by the outcrop where the Legion had wanted them to lure the NCR forces. There was silence, before Michael called out; "Bad news, fellas!"

After a moment, Calidius stood, and called; "What happened?"

"NCR didn't take the bait," Michael said. "Went off somewhere else. Probably to get reinforcements is my guess."

The Legionary shook his head, and Michael added; "And you're not getting the down payment back."

That got him a vicious glare, before Calidius asked; "Do you at least know where they went?"

"Yeah," Michael replied. "Right behind you."

To his credit, Calidius didn't hesitate as he turned to see the rifle-holding NCR trooper who had emerged from where he was creeping up behind him. The Decanus' submachine gun chattered as he emptied the magazine into the soldier's chest, bullets punching crimson holes into the man's torso as the rest of the ridge erupted into gunfire. Anston and Co. scattered, diving to what little cover they had as the Legion tried to fire upon them and the NCR forces who had crept up behind them at the same time. Michael grabbed Feyman and dragged him behind a rock, his nine-millimetre pistol in hand, and growled; "Don't try _anything_, got it?"

Calidius did not bother reloading his weapon, dropping it and scrambling over the rocky slope toward Brutus, a look of pure fury on his face as he charged. A bullet from Ripley's rifle scraped against the metal plate that he wore as armour for his shoulder, but he kept going, unslinging a fire axe from his belt. Brutus simply stood there quite calmly, machete in one hand, his claw raised and ready.

The metal pincers closed round the haft of the axe and pulled it away, stumbling Calidius before the blade of his machete sunk between the vulnerable, unarmoured join between his shoulder and neck, forcing the Legionary to his knees. The blade was not particularly sharp, but with its sheer weight and the power behind it that point was purely academic, and crimson trails already began to leak from the wound.

Calidius snarled at Brutus, even as bloody foam began to leak from the corner of his mouth, and with his dying breath he managed to choke; "Lanius should have killed you instead of just chopping your precious arm off, traitor."

He collapsed as Brutus wrenched the gore-spattered blade free, the brief but furious firefight already over, the outnumbered and surprised Legionaries no match for their opponents, half of them already dead before they knew combat had even begun.

The NCR sergeant headed down the sloping sides of the hill, towards Michael, a fairly young looking Legionary with his hands bound by coarse twine in tow, the kid looking abjectly miserable.

"Good work there," he said. "Saved a lot of good lives there, and we couldn't have done it without you."

"No problem," Michael said. "Besides, we had a job to do."

The sergeant nodded, and said; "I won't intrude. Still, on the behalf of the NCR I'd like to thank you."

"Just be sure to consider Anston and Co. for any future violence you want inflicted on people you don't like," Michael replied with a grin. "See you round, sarge."

The sergeant nodded, pushing his captive to his knees before turning round to the other NCR troopers who were on the ridge, searching the bodies of the dead.

"Got two minutes to finish grabbing any ammo or weapons you need from these guys, then we're mounting up!" the sergeant called as he headed back up the slope with a final nod to Michael. "Someone get Veresky a stimpack and bandages, we'll get him back to Camp Golf to see a doctor there."

"Alright," Michael said, turning to the Legionary and clapping his hands together with a malicious grin as Brutus approached, wiping blood off his machete. "So, buddy, what do you know?"

"I won't tell you anything," the kid replied.

"Yeah you will," Michael said. "Kid, we just massacred your friends and we don't have any reservations about hurting you real bad to get what we want. Don't be a hero; just tell us what we want to know and we'll let you go."

"You don't scare me," the young Legionary replied, but there was an edge of uncertain fright to his voice.

"We should," Alex said from behind him, resting the razor tip of one of his knives on the top of his head. "Whaddya want me to take off, boss? An ear? Both?"

"Don't hurt him too bad," Michael said. "Yet."

The blade ran along the top of his skull, drawing a trail of blood that gently welled up around the blade, stopping just above the spinal cord. The Legionary hissed in pain, gritting his teeth, before Alex withdrew the blade. Michael leant down on one knee to be at eye-level with him.

"We're good at hurting people, kid," Michael said. "You don't want to find out just how good, do you?"

His nerve broke.

"Alright, want to do you want to know?" he asked.

"Your people stole a whole load of weapons," Michael said. "We want to know where they are."

"With the horses!" the kid blurted. "Just south, only a hundred metres or something that way!"

Michael nodded, before he said to Alex; "He's no use. Kill 'im, will ya?"

One of his knives stabbed into the back of his neck and the Legionary slumped forwards onto the dusty, stony ground, limp and helpless as a ragdoll.

"Come on," Michael said. "Let's go get those weapons, shall we?"

He grinned.

"And hey," he added. "Free horses!"


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"Four thousand caps," Michael said, looking at the sum on the table before them. "Four. Thousand. Caps. Goddamn, life is truly beautiful today."

"Might want to stop drooling over the cash, Mike," Brutus grinned. "We're still waiting for our cut."

Michael shook his head, leaning back in his chair in the smoky, dingy confines of the Atomic Wrangler. The wooden piece of furniture creaked under his weight as he did so, and he said; "Y'know, that's fair. Alright, seven hundred caps each. Best paying job yet, I do think."

"Nice," Doris said, while Ripley declared; "I'm hitting up the Tops!"

Alex had a slight frown on his face, before he said; "Hey, isn't it eight hundred each if we're getting paid four grand?"

"Yep," Michael said. "I'm putting aside four hundred to get us a nice little stimulant to business; an advertisement for Anston and Co. on Radio New Vegas. Was gonna head over to the studio and buy us a nice little recommendation; long term business, y'know?"

"Hey, can I come, then?" Alex asked.

"I was just gonna be doing business there," Michael said. "Doubt it's gonna be all that exciting."

"Yeah, but Mr New Vegas seems like a cool guy," Alex said. "I wanna meet him, and if we're going over there to ask about an advert then we might just."

Michael shrugged, before he said; "Sure, if you really want."

"Cool," Alex said. "Thanks, boss."

"No problem," Michael said, before he leaned forward on the round table they were seated around and divided the small pile of caps, NCR dollars and Legion aureii on the table before them evenly amongst each member of Anston and Co. "Alright, there we go. Your cash, you do what you want with it. I'm heading over to the Radio New Vegas studio on the Strip, the rest of you can come with me if you want."

There was a round of nods, the rest of Anston and Co. eager to spend their earnings in the grand casinos that populated what had more than once been called 'The Richest Place on what's left of Earth.' Through Freeside they went, passing by crumbling, dilapidated buildings, through the gate that separated the Strip from its far less glamorous counterpart.

"See you guys later, then," Michael said in way of farewell as his company, and he and Alex were left alone on the Strip as they made their way towards Radio New Vegas' studio.

There was quiet as he and Alex made their way along the cracked tarmac roadway, a pair of Securitrons whirling past them in the opposite direction, before Michael asked; "So why do you want to meet Mr. New Vegas so much anyway?"

"I don't know," Alex said. "He just seems like a cool guy."

Michael shrugged.

"Guess we've all gotta have someone we look up to," he said after a moment. "S'pose there's worse people to do that with than Mr New Vegas."

_I know what you're all thinking, and yeah, I do have someone I look up to as well. In fact, Alex and I were walking past his place just then. So, who was this guy? Mr House, of course._

_Y'see, the way I had things figured, the situation in the Mojave with New Vegas and the NCR went something like this; the NCR occupied the place, and House gave them power from the Hoover Dam. Now, the Strip doesn't actually need that much power, and I remember hearing from some NCR techie that all it really requires is something like five percent of the dam's output (don't quote me on that, this is years ago). Still, that's barely anything, and House had absolutely nothing else he needed to do with all that electricity going spare, so he just shut down those generators._

_Then along comes the NCR, with a whole goddamn army and it starts demanding all the juice from the dam. All House had was his Securitrons, so he doesn't have much choice other than to agree with them. Except that, of course, what he gets in return is a whole ton of cash from all the tourists going to the Strip, and an entire army to keep his territory safe, and in return all he needs to give the NCR is power that he doesn't even need in the first place. Now, I might well be getting the figures wrong, but while the NCR thinks they're getting a pretty sweet deal out of all this, they seem to have pretty much turned around, bent down, pulled down their pants and said to House; "Do what you want with me, baby."_

"Pity you didn't get to see Mr New Vegas in person, uh?" Michael said sympathetically as he and Alex left the studio and returned to the Strip, flicking the arms of his sunglasses out and sliding them on. "Still, the advert's on air now, and that's what matters."

"Yeah," Alex said, still sounding a little disappointed. "Hey, another time, maybe. Anyway, were you going to be hitting the Strip, boss?"

Michael shook his head.

"Nope," he said. "That's all that the others seem to do, though; make their money and then spend it away on the tables or strippers. There's no long term plan."

"Was there going to be?" Alex asked. "I mean, we're making pretty good money at the moment."

"Pretty good?" Michael asked. "Pretty good isn't good enough! I'm thinking long-term, big business here; making proper, steady money and getting rich, eating at the Ultra-Luxe every day rich. So I'm saving up all this cash, gonna invest it wisely, that sort of thing; that's why I've got the advert, that's why I'm gonna find us somewhere that we can use as a proper base of operations and that's why I'm not just gonna spend all of it in the casinos. Beside, you know what they say; cap saved is a cap earned, isn't it?"

"I guess," Alex said. "Though thinking of that, I had an idea."

"Ahuh?" Michael said, raising an eyebrow at Alex in interest. "Let's hear it."

"You know the Thorn, over in Westside?" Alex asked.

"Oh yeah, that fighting pit," Michael replied. "You thinking we could try any betting or something out there?"

"I thought we could put Brutus in there," Alex said. "Y'know, put some bets on him and stuff, get some cash out of that."

Michael nodded slowly.

"That's…that's a pretty good idea, actually," he said. "If Brutus would be up for it, mind; we'd lose a pretty big part of the company if he was taken out of action."

"Sure he'd be up for it," Alex said. "He's a big guy; he can look after himself in a fight if any of us can."

"Suppose so," Michael said. "We'll ask him, I guess. Good a way as any to get some cash, isn't it."

He nodded contemplatively, and said; "Y'know, you could be on to a winner, there."

"So," Michael said to woman before him. "This is the Thorn then, uh?"

Harsh striplights glared down on a dirt pit walled in concrete, floor stained with blood, while metal walkways snaked above and around it, and only two lead down to the pit itself. There was an underlying, unpleasant scent of viscera and sweat pervading the air, made all the worse by the fact that it was trapped under the ground in the sewer tunnels that housed the Thorn.

"This it is," Red Lucy replied, the mistress of the Thorn looking Michael and his associates up and down with a critical eye. "The testing ground where you can choose the moment of death against destiny, where the Wasteland and humankind are placed in competition with one another."

"Right," Michael said slowly. "Right, that sounds…sounds like the sort of thing we're here for?"

"You're here to fight?" Red Lucy asked, folding her arms. There was the faintest trace of a smirk on her features; all Michael wore was a suit, after all, and even though the jacket was lined with Kevlar fibres it would do little good in a fighting pit when all it needed was a well placed knife in the lapel to stick steel into a target's vitals.

"Myself? No," Michael said. "Brutus, on the other hand, is."

"So I should hope," Red Lucy said, giving Brutus a far more approving look. "He looks capable of handling himself in there."

"Glad to hear," Michael said. "So, what's he fighting?"

"It depends," Red Lucy replied. "We have animals he can fight, but we also captured some Fiends just a few days ago, three of them. Some of the Westsiders wanted to put them on trial, but I persuaded them to let them see if they could prove themselves worthy of survival in the Thorn. Your big friend could fight one of them, if he wished."

"I'll take all three," Brutus replied.

There was a long pause, before Michael said; "Brutus, buddy, are you nuts? Three on one?"

Brutus nodded.

"Small pit," he said. "They'll get in each other's way. I can handle that, easy."

"If you're sure," Michael said slowly.

"I'm sure," Brutus said, his tone calm. "Three Fiends aren't a problem."

Michael shrugged, before he said; "What are the odds on him winning, then?"

"Two to one," Lucy said quickly, working the numbers out with the speed of an experienced bookie.

"Good," Michael said. "I'll put four hundred caps on him."

Red Lucy nodded, and she called to one of the guards; "Get the Fiends, all of them; we have someone who wants to try himself against them."

The guard nodded in reply, leaving through a metal side door to somewhere in the pit below, and Red Lucy nodded to Brutus.

"Head down," she said. "Wait for the gates to open."

Michael and the others headed to the raised ring of flat concrete that surrounded the Thorn's fighting pit, and he lit a cigarette as Brutus headed into the gated area that lead into the arena.

The Legionary rolled back his shoulders, loosening them up a little, and drew his machete. There was a soft 'whumph' as he span it in his grip, blade parting the air, and he looked through the chain-link fence to see what was coming.

Like most of their kind, the three Fiends of New Vegas that emerged from the opposite pen were scrawny, wiry individuals, bodies ravaged by drug use and malnutrition. They wore a patchwork of metal plates and crudely tanned leather to serve as armour, and Brutus could see one of them, a particularly skinny one holding a metal pipe with its end wrapped in barbed wire, twitching; a symptom of Psycho withdrawl, something that should disrupt the man's concentration. The other two were armed with similarly crude weapons; a sharp hook on the end of a steel chain, the Fiend wielding it whirling it around in front of him and grinning wickedly, and the other carrying a pair of broad bladed knives. Brutus made a mental note to watch the chain-wielder; the other two would need to get in reach of his machete or claw if they wanted to try and deal with him, but the one with the chain wouldn't have that problem.

He could hear the roar of the crowd begin to dim as he focussed only on the combat ahead, the details of his opponents' bodies already being assessed instantaneously, almost unconsciously; a bullet wound on the knee of the Fiend with the knives, possibly impairing mobility, fingers laced through the links of the chain, making it harder to let go of and either a blessing or a curse, depending on the circumstances. In normal combat, this tunnel vision would have been too risky to use, but Brutus knew what he was fighting. For the next few minutes, the entire world would simply be four walls and three enemies.

There was a rattle of chains and the gate swung upwards; the crowd roared its bloodthirsty approval, cheering on the fighters, and Brutus and the Fiends emerged.

They spread out, trying to flank him, but in the small pit's confines that was easier said than done, Brutus making their job all the more difficult by backing into a corner and keeping them in his sight.

The chain swung down from his left, and Brutus raised his bionic, the hook wrapping around its claws. He closed them and yanked down just as Knives dashed forwards, using Chains' weight as a counter to pull himself out of the way of the barely controlled charge. A split second later, and the wire-wrapped pipe swept into his shoulder, metal hitting muscle with a wet slap.

He threw up his machete, pushing away the pipe with the flat of the blade and wincing as the wire pulled loose a few chunks of flesh and spatters of blood. Chains was still holding onto his weapon, trying desperately to tug it from his grasp, and before Pipe and Blades could do anything Brutus pulled, yanking himself towards Chains. His machete swung down, blade splitting Chains' skull, and Brutus turned with surprising grace to face the others, limp corpse of their compatriot between them.

"Your friend's good," Red Lucy remarked to Michael from their place above the pit. "Didn't know he did arena fights."

Michael frowned down at the combat as Brutus blocked the swing of the pipe with his bionic, seeming to manage it with little difficulty despite the fact that it was constricted by the chain still wrapped round it, and said; "Neither did I."

Below, Brutus slashed outwards with his machete, forcing Pipe and Knives to back away, and tugged, wrenching the chain from his dead enemy's grasp. That thing swinging around was going to be irritating, but at least he wasn't trying to fight and lug about a corpse at the same time.

Knives suddenly dived forwards, his two blades raised, and Brutus threw himself out of the way only for Pipe to swing at him as well. The former Legionary gave a yell of pain as the crude weapon sank into his gut, barely managing to stagger away, bleeding from the dozens of miniature holes punched into his stomach from the wire; even with the armour on his midriff the breath was slammed from his lungs. Knives went for another attack, but the weapon he struck with glanced off the metal plating on Brutus shoulder and he stumbled. Brutus' claw struck down and crushed his skull with a single blow, bone no match against solid steel.

Pipe circled Brutus warily, looking for an opening of some kind, feinting to the left before diving in. Brutus didn't rise to the bait, knocking away his enemy's crude weapon before the rear of his claw swung out and slammed into his chest. The Fiend was sent flying, rolling to the floor in a breathless tangle of limbs, and Brutus took a moment to wrench the chain from his claw before advancing, machete raised.

He kicked the Fiend onto his back, a boot pressing heavily down on his victim's chest, and prepared to strike the final blow, before someone in the crowd yelled; "Crush his head! Use the claw!"

"Yeah!" someone else called. "Crush it!"

In moments, it was a beat of the same word over and over; "Crush! Crush! Crush! Crush!"

Obligingly, Brutus picked up the raider by his head, ignoring the man's desperate flailing as he struggled to break free.

"Crush! Crush! Crush! Crush!"

Brutus began to apply pressure.

"Crush! Crush! Crush! Crush!"

The screams grew louder, the struggles more desperate, yells of the crowd more fervent.

"Crush! Crush! Crush! Crush!"

Bone began to crack, yells sounding less like that of a man and more like that of an animal.

"Crush! Crush! Crush! Crush!"

It burst, blood, brains and a corpse dropping to the ground, and the crowd roared its approval, Brutus raising his viscera streaked claw to the ceiling in acknowledgement. The fight's audience had gone wild, standing on their feet in barbaric joy at the spectacle before them, clapping enthusiastically and cheering. Even Red Lucy was smiling, clapping slowly. Only Michael was quiet, looking thoughtfully down at the co-founder of his company, a contemplative expression on his face underneath his goatee.

"Crowd like him, don't they?" Red Lucy asked as Brutus began to ascend from the pit, spattered in blood and still bleeding, but triumphant.

Michael nodded.

"Hell, they love him," he said after a moment. "Though I've got a question for you; how much would you pay me to have him come back same time next week and wow them again?"

_Violence in exchange for money. That was Anston and Co. all over._


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

_Three weeks went by, and all in all, life was pretty good. Business came rolling in since the advert, Brutus kept getting asked back to the Thorn to beat the crap out of whatever it was that Red Lucy had lined up for him time (except for the Deathclaw. I drew the line at that Deathclaw; I need Brutus alive). The only problem was, there was something missing. I couldn't place it, at first, and then it hit me, just like that. Bam, bolt from the blue._

"An office," Michael announced suddenly. "That's it, an office!"

"What?" Ripley asked from his place around their table in the Atomic Wrangler.

"We need an office," Michael said. "A headquarters, a base of operations."

"The hell do we need that for?" Alex quizzed, raising an eyebrow. "That sort of thing's expensive."

"Kid's got a point," Brutus added. "We're getting by pretty well already. Office would be pricey; need power, plumbing, someone to keep an eye on it when we're gone, all that."

"Yeah, but we've got money coming in," Michael said. "We can pay for that. But we get an office, and people know where to find us, more business comes in, we get richer. Besides, it's an office. A proper goddamn office! C'mon, gimme one merc company that has themselves an office; you can't, can you?"

"That's because they don't need an office, though," Ripley said. "A base or something, mesh fence and all that, that's better."

"No it ain't," Michael said. "Sure, it's safer, but a client isn't going to be happy about just going into any place full of armed thugs where they're surrounded by big walls and gun turrets; they aren't at ease, are they? While an office, that's different; an office has _class_. An office shows that the people they're dealing with here are a cut above the rest of the hired thugs out there, marks us out as private military contractors as opposed to just mercs."

"What's the difference between those two anyway?" Alex asked. "I still don't get it."

"There ain't one," Doris said. "Just that private military contractors sounds better."

"Exactly," Michael replied. "This is all about selling ourselves, people; we want Anston and Co. to be the go-to company for any mercenary work, and that means we need a place in a busy location where we can drum up lots of business."

There was quiet for a few moments as the rest of the company considered this, before Brutus asked; "Where were you thinking, Mike?"

"Somewhere in Freeside," Michael said. "Near the strip gate; I noticed a couple of old buildings that are in pretty good shape and just need the bums turfing out of them."

"Reckon the Kings wouldn't appreciate someone setting up on their territory," Ripley pointed out. "They get pretty good business out of escorting folks to the Strip; might think it's a threat."

"Kings can suck it," Michael declared. "Besides, there's hardly any overlap, is there? We do bigger jobs, they do smaller ones. If we're scrounging caps getting people through Freeside then we've got bigger problems than just the damn Kings."

"The King won't see it that way though, will he?" Brutus said.

"Worst case scenario, I talk things over with him," Michael said. "He's a reasonable guy, he can be brought round."

"Hope so," Ripley said. "I don't want the Kings gunning for me."

Michael waved a hand dismissively, saying; "It'll be fine. Trust me."

They found their potential office on the run up to the Strip, near the end of the long straight road, not too far from the gate. It was, come to think of it, one of the perfect places to set up shop; near enough so that wealthy patrons from the casinos could enter feeling safe and secure beneath the ever-vigilant gaze of Mr House's securitrons. The old front doors were held closed by several near-rotten planks of wood, but Brutus' claw made short work of that, wrenching them off with ease.

"Nice looking front on this thing," Michael said as Brutus prised the ancient, rusting doors open. "I like it. S'almost like one of the casinos."

Next to him, Doris nodded, adding; "That's got style."

She was right; the façade of the building stretched skywards, almost a good storey above the rest of the structure. The metal front that was rusted and pitted, but a bit of polish would scrub the place up to a shine. Over the front doors was some kind of awning or balcony, a few letters scattered randomly across its front, and there was some kind of cubicle next to the entrance, its glass front shattered.

"What do you think it was?" Michael asked as they entered. They found themselves in some kind of foyer, an ancient, rotten linoleum carpet slowly surrendering ground to the concrete floor beneath it as damp and mould ate away at it. The only light was dimly filtered in from the sunlight outside. There was, he was pleased to note, a desk off to one side, an ancient sign above it announcing; 'Tickets and snacks.'

"No idea," Brutus said, looking around as Michael approached the desk with a curious frown.

The legionary's boss crouched down next a glass cubicle on the desk, the box itself empty, and asked; "Any idea what 'popco' is?"

"Some kind of prewar company, maybe?" Doris suggested. "Like Robco?"

"Yeah, maybe," Michael said. "Must've owned this place before the bombs dropped."

A door behind them creaked slowly, and they glanced around to see a figure dressed in rags shuffling out of a doorway. He peered at them with unfocussed eyes, and managed to mumble a challenge; "Who're you?"

"We're moving in here," Michael said.

The bum seemed to mull this over, swaying slightly, before he said; "But…but I live here."

"Not any more," Michael replied. "Go on, off you go."

There was a confused silence, before Brutus simply clapped a meaty hand on the man's shoulders and led him to the door. The bum stood on the cracked pavement outside, in the blazing sun, looking completely lost before he wandered away down the run-down street.

"Alright, let's take a look around," Michael said. "Hopefully that should be the last of any of those drifters."

He pulled open the door that the intruder had accosted them from, revealing a flight of stairs. Brutus and Doris were in his wake as he climbed them, getting to a corridor at the end of the stairs, flicking on the light of his Pip-Boy to compensate from the fact that they were walking in total darkness.

"Hope Alex and Ripley find that generator," Doris remarked as Michael shone the torch on his wrist ahead of him down the corridor. "This place isn't going to be much good if we can't light it up."

"Yeah," Michael said. "Gotta say, this place is bigger than I thought."

Brutus nodded as Michael pushed open a door off the side. The room his Pip-Boy illuminated was small and boxy, much of the floor taken up by an ancient, rotting mattress. Pointing towards an empty window that simply showed more darkness, a strange, boxy device with a lense rested on a table, with a pair of large wheels held above it by a few metal struts. Michael peered at it, spinning one of the wheels with a finger.

"Wonder what this place was," he said.

Brutus just shrugged, before he suggested; "Shall we check downstairs?"

"Yeah, might as well," Michael said.

In the foyer, they pushed open another door, this one set back in the wall and with a sign of some sort above it, the letters above it long since fallen or peeled away. The room they entered seemed to be large, despite the fact that it was pitch black, and as Michael shone the torch around them they realised only then the scale of where they were.

Michael grinned.

"Now this," he said. "This is something else."

"Y'know what I don't get," Alex said as the door he pulled open revealed a cupboard full of protectron parts. "Is why all the robots about have 'tron' at the end of their names."

Ripley just shrugged as he hauled away a sheet of corrugated iron and glanced underneath to see if there was anything there.

"I mean, there's the protectron," Alex continued as he quickly climbed over the ancient conveyor belt that ran through the derelict robot factory that occupied a quiet, largely ignored corner of Freeside. "And you've got the securitron as well, and there's the…the...uh…"

"You can't think of any other robot names, can you?" Ripley asked.

"Alright, I can't," Alex admitted.

"Well I remember there was the sextron back before the war," Ripley said.

"What?"

"Well, basically, you'd bend over-"

"Hey, I didn't ask for an explanation."

"And the sextron would have this fist on a kind of arm-"

"Shaddup, shaddup."

"And it would stick it-"

"SHUT UP, RIPLEY!"

Ripley cackled and grinned at him through rotten teeth.

"Just pulling your leg, kid," he said.

"Oh, thank god," Alex said. "Man, that's just gross."

He shook his head, before he said; "Whatever, what I mean is that tron's gotta mean something, hasn't it?"

"No idea," Ripley replied. There was a clattering and a curse as he knocked over a box of ancient, rusted tools. "I remember…I remember robot used to mean 'slave' in Greek or something."

"What's Greek?"

"Another language," Ripley explained as he pulled open a door. "Hey, here we go."

He picked up the small fission generator that sat at the bottom of the maintenance cupboard with a grunt, and said; "Gimme a hand with the door, will ya?"

Alex held it open for the Ghoul as they stepped out of the old factory, blinking in the change of light from the dim confines of the factory to the blazing sunshine that beat down mercilessly upon Freeside.

"This place it too damn hot," Ripley grizzled as they made their way up the street. "I swear, I should've stuck around the Boneyard; sea kept things cool there. This, though, this just wears you out."

Alex nodded at this. The light duster he wore was loose, the collar of his shirt undone, and his shaved scalp was glistening with a sheen of sweat; even though they were good desert clothes, they were sticking to him like glue in this heat.

"August in the Mojave," Ripley continued. "Is not a pleasant time of year."

"There any place cooler?" Alex asked.

This got a strange glance from Ripley, before the ghoul remembered that Alex had spent his entire life in the Mojave; before the war, the world had shrunk to the point where a fission jet could fly all the way around it in a matter of hours, but the falling of the bombs had blasted everywhere far, far apart from each other.

"I remember I took a holiday in a place called Canada once, way up north," Ripley said. "Around this time of year, too. Nice and mild up there. Lots of trees."

Alex shrugged.

"Could do with some mild weather now," he said.

On the other hand, Freeside in this heat was quiet; the usual gangs of thieves and muggers that marauded the shanty town had retreated to the shade along with the beggars and the rest of its residents, and the closest they got to trouble were a few glares from the groups huddling there. It seemed that the consensus amongst Freeside's people was that it wasn't worth braving the heat just to mug two people lugging an old generator up the street.

"Hey!" Michael called to them as they were on the approach to the Strip. "You two, over here!"

"You picked the old movie theatre?" Ripley asked disbelievingly as the two approached the building.

"I picked the old whatty what?"

"The movie theatre," Ripley said. "That's what this place is, isn't it?"

"I dunno," Michael said. "It's just some big old abandoned building. The hell's a movie?"

"It's like…it's like a picture that moves, and they play sound to, y'know, tell a story," Ripley said as he entered the foyer. "I remember as a kid that every week they'd show an instalment of the Adventures of Captain Cosmos; showed every Saturday, and you paid a nickel to get in and watch."

"Why'd you pay to see the same thing again every week?" Michael asked.

"They left it on a cliffhanger every time," Ripley answered. "So they'd have Captain Cosmos in some new kind of danger so you'd want to come back each time to find out what happened next and how he got out of it."

Michael looked thoughtful, before he said; "Not a bad idea."

"Anyway," he said. "There's a place you can hook the generator up down in the basement, that should give us power."

Ripley nodded as he followed Michael down, the torch on his Pip Boy lighting the way. There were a couple of battery powered electric lanterns hanging in the small brick room, and Doris was waiting with a box of tools she'd found from somewhere.

"That the generator?" she asked.

"Yep," Ripley replied. "Where shall I stick it?"

"Just over there," Doris said, gesturing to a gap in the wall where there were several wires loose. "Used to be where the place was hooked up to the grid. Just have to hope this generator works."

She nodded over to Michael, saying; "Gimme a minute or two, hun. I'll get it going."

"Alright," Michael said, heading up to foyer. He glanced around the dimly lit room, lighting a cigarette, and it was burnt almost down to the filter when Doris called up; "Michael, honey, I got it working. Give the lights a try, will you?"

He searched for the switch, flipping it up and the striplights that illuminated the foyer flickered on after a few moments.

"They're good!" he called back, before he headed into the huge room they had discovered earlier. Seeing that the power was on, Brutus followed, and Michael tapped the many switches by the doorway as he entered. Before, they had stumbled around it in the dark, but now the true extent was revealed; easily a good fifteen metres across and more than twice that in length, tiers of seats all in neat rows, facing a white, flat screen that was speckled with mould and damp.

"Could have one hell of a firing range in here," Brutus remarked with a grin.

"Yep," Michael said. "Y'know what? This has gotta be the best office any merc company has ever had."


End file.
